r by the hand, made a desperate
rush for him; but Mrs. Putnon Ayres reached him first, and placed
the right hand of a pretty young lady in his own.

"'Take my 'arriet, sir,' she exclaimed, enthusiastically, 'and be
assured that she will make you a good wife. It 'as always been my
'ope to 'ave such a son-in-law.'

"Mr. R. Fennarf felt that his case was becoming desperate; his
chance of regaining his daughter farther off than ever. Fairly
crazy to be kicked, he familiarly chucked Miss Harriet under the
chin, and, assuming a perfectly diabolical expression of
countenance, deliberately tickled her!

"'Haw! haw! haw!' roared Mr. Putnon Ayres, holding his sides with
delight, 'that's the real English frankness, my dear son,--for such
I must already call you,--and no American girl could be less than
'appy to perceive it.'

"In utter despair, Mr. R. Fennarf involuntarily placed a hand upon
the magic rod in his bosom, and wished himself elsewhere. Quick as
thought he was elsewhere, and entering the sumptuous private office
of the gifted St. Albans, editor of the New York 'Daily Fife,'
whose 'leaders' on the propriety of an immediate slaughter of all
Britons within reach, have excited much terror in the bosom of
Victoria.

"'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet
his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'

"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.

"'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled,
like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the
English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily
Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of
the editor over the fireplace.

"St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.

"'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English
honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'

"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing
temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked;
'you and your paper be demn'd! What do _you_ know about Carlyle,
bless my soul! _Who_ are you smiling at? WHAT d'ye mean?'

"Here he knocked St. Albans down.

"'You shall hear from me--step into that next room--will write to
you instantly,' panted the editor.

Half-crazed with h